Captive (25 page)

“I used to come here a lot when I was younger,” Denbigh said.

“Why did you stop?”

He smiled down at her. “I outgrew hide and seek. At least the grown-up version of it that is played in the darkened walkways here,” he said, gesturing toward a kissing couple half-hidden in the shadows.

Charlotte realized she had let the earl walk her
down one of the less used byways. That it was quite dark. And she was wearing very little.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“Does it matter?”

His voice was low and husky and made her feel jittery inside.

She could not think of a subtle way to ask if this was the Lover’s Walk. She did not want to give away her eventual destination. And she would rather not give him any ideas.

“Who were you planning to meet here tonight, Charlotte?” he asked.

The question caught her by surprise, and she made the mistake of stopping. Mistake, because once they were no longer moving, he turned her to face him and put his hands on her shoulders. Her almost bare shoulders.

She had never felt anything quite like it.

The grazing touch of his fingertips was enough to tickle her and make her giggle. She stuck a hand over her mouth, because the giggle sounded too much like those they had heard in the shadows along the walkway. She and Denbigh were not even off the beaten path!

Denbigh must have read her mind.

He backed her up one step, and another, until she ran into a lilac bush behind her.

“Ouch!” she said. “There’s a limb stabbing me in the back.”

Her gallant savior reached around her to find the offending limb and break it off. Of course, once his arms were around her, it took only a small effort to pull her close.

Charlotte managed to squeeze her arms and elbows in between them at the last second. “Lion, I don’t think—”

“Don’t think,” he said, lowering his head to kiss her.

Charlotte knew now why Vauxhall Gardens was so popular. It had nothing to do with the food, or even the entertainment. She had yet to witness a single explosion of fireworks. Except within her own body.

It was these damned darkened walkways.

Not that Charlotte minded kissing Lion. He was quite good at it, actually. Her knees turned to jelly in two seconds flat. Her nipples became twin buds against her forearms, which were bunched against Denbigh’s chest. Her breathing became erratic. And what he was doing to her mouth was causing an embarrassing dampness between her thighs.

“Lion,” she said against his mouth, as he nibbled on her lips.

“What is it, Charlotte?”

“Are we near the Lover’s Walk?”

“Why do you ask?” he asked, sounding amused.

“I … I just wondered.”

“We’re
on
the Lover’s Walk,” he said, as he kissed her beneath her ear.

“Oh.” She shivered. Like a child rooting for the source of sustenance, she rose on tiptoes, found the same spot beneath his ear, and returned his kiss.

And felt him shiver.

The sound of gravel crunching underfoot warned them of someone’s approach. Lion pulled her close, hiding her face against his chest. She shoved her head out from under his arm to see who was passing, on the chance that it was Sir Fenton looking for her.

And saw a checkered domino like the one Lion was wearing. Like Sir Fenton had said he would wear.

“Lion,” she whispered.

“Shh.”

“Lion,” she whispered.

“Shhhhhh.”

Sir Fenton was getting away. He might think she had forgotten her appointment. He might not come back.

“Sir Fenton,” she called. “I am here.”

Lion groaned.

Sir Fenton stopped in his tracks and whispered in the direction of the bushes where they were hidden, “Lady Charlotte? Is that you?”

“It’s her, you old fool,” Denbigh replied, his voice laced with menace. “And she’s with me.”

Sir Fenton had already reversed his course when Charlotte called after him, “Sir Fenton! Don’t leave! I must speak with you!” She struggled to be free of Denbigh’s hold on her. “Let me go, Lion. I have to speak with him!”

“He’s too old for you, Charlotte,” Lion said.

“I don’t want to marry him, you idiot! I just want to interview him.”

At the word “idiot,” Denbigh’s hold loosened, and Charlotte slipped out of his grasp and followed the disappearing figure.

“Wait, Sir Fenton. Please, wait for me!”

For some reason, Fenton wasn’t slowing down, and he even made several turns, so that once she almost lost track of him. Charlotte could hear Denbigh’s bootsteps crunching in the gravel behind her, which lent her feet wings.

“Sir Fenton,” she called, “I’m alone. Wait for me.”

Sir Fenton abruptly stopped and turned to wait for her.

She was breathless by the time she finally reached him. “Why—did you—run?” she asked between pants.

“I distinctly heard Denbigh’s voice, Lady Charlotte. I did not wish to intrude between you and your guardian.”

“We were only walking together until it was
time for me to meet with you,” Charlotte reassured him.

He peered beyond her shoulder. “Denbigh did not follow you?”

Charlotte listened for the crunch of gravel and realized she did not hear anything. She did not know what had happened to Denbigh, but she did not doubt he was looking for her even now. She needed to get the information she had come to get before Denbigh caught up to her.

“I guess he got lost,” Charlotte said brightly to Sir Fenton. “We’re alone.”

“Well, well, Lady Charlotte,” Sir Fenton said with a crooked smile that appeared like magic out of the darkness. “This is much better.”

Charlotte did not like the insinuating tone of his voice. She stated her business quickly. “I came to find out what you can tell me about Lord James Somers.”

“Somers?” Sir Fenton mused. “I have not discoursed with anyone by that name lately.”

“Probably because he’s dead,” Charlotte said with asperity.

“Well, that explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“Why I don’t know him.”

Charlotte felt like tearing her hair in frustration. “Sir Fenton, I came here because at Lady Hornby’s
ball you suggested you might be able to tell me where a couple could go to be alone together.”

“And so I have,” Sir Fenton said with a satisfied smirk. “For here we are! Just as you desired.”

When Sir Fenton lunged for her, Charlotte leaped backward. Unfortunately, he managed to grab the sheet where it crossed her shoulder and pulled hard enough to break the clasp of Olivia’s ruby brooch.

As the brooch came free, and he reined in the fabric, the pin stuck him in the hand. He cried out in surprise and pain. “What was that?”

Charlotte was too busy clutching at loose silk to have much sympathy for him. “You scoundrel!” she hissed. “You libertine! You rakeshame! You—You—” she searched her vocabulary for another word to describe Fenton.

“Try lecher,” a deadly voice behind her said.

Charlotte whirled. “Lion!” She threw herself toward him, and he caught her in his arms. She felt his fingers move across her bare shoulder where her costume should have been and find a scratch where blood had welled in tiny beads.

“You’re hurt,” he said in a tight voice.

“He’s got Livy’s ruby brooch, Lion. He tore it off of me. Make him give it back.”

“The chit came here looking for me, Denbigh,” Sir Fenton blustered. “She only got what she deserved.”

“Get behind me, Charlotte,” Denbigh said, setting her aside. He took a step toward Fenton.

“I don’t care to engage in a bout of fisticuffs with you, Denbigh.”

“You don’t have a choice,” Lion said.

Charlotte heard the sound of metal grating against metal. She didn’t recognize it at first. Then she saw the shine of steel in the moonlight and realized Sir Fenton’s gold-handled walking stick had carried a concealed blade, which he was now holding in his hand.

“Be careful, Lion!” she cried. “He has a sword.”

“Stay where you are, Charlotte,” Denbigh said. “I will handle this.” As he spoke, Denbigh untied the domino from his throat, slipped it from his shoulders, and flung it several times around one arm to make a protective pad of silk. Then he continued his predatory stalk in Fenton’s direction.

“Stay back,” Fenton warned. “I know how to use this to good effect.” He whipped the blade several times in the air, making a deadly, whistling sound as though to prove his claim.

Charlotte noticed that, at the same time, he was checking his avenues of escape.

There were none. He was backed into a corner, trapped by trees and shrubs. There was no way out except through Denbigh.

Charlotte could have told Denbigh that a
trapped animal will always fight more viciously, because it knows there is no escape. Fenton gave the lesson to Denbigh himself.

The sword struck like lightning, slashing through the darkness. Denbigh’s protected arm came up to block the blow.

Fenton struck again, like a cobra, swift and dangerous.

Denbigh’s reflexes were quicker, and he parried the second blow, but Charlotte knew from his surprised grunt that a third stab had found flesh.

“Lion!” she cried.

“Stay where you are, Charlotte.” His voice was calm, and he did not sound in the least discomposed, though she knew he must be hurt.

Fenton was breathing like a bellows. Moonlight reflected off beads of sweat on his forehead and glistening rivulets ran down the sides of his face into what were quickly wilting white shirt points. His eyes glittered like an animal’s in the moonlight.

Fenton had the weapon, but it became clear, as Charlotte watched the two men, that he was the one whose life was in danger.

Denbigh parried Fenton’s next desperate thrust with the wad of silk and reached for Fenton’s throat. His fingers tightened, and Charlotte watched the older man drop his weapon and claw at Denbigh’s tightening grasp with both hands.

Charlotte ran to Denbigh and grabbed at his
arm. “Let him go, Lion. My hurt is but a scratch. It will heal without a mark.”

Fenton’s eyes bulged. His breath rattled in his throat.

“Please, Lion. You have killed once for the sake of a lady’s honor, and it accomplished nothing! Leave be!”

His jaw clamped tight. He did not even look at her, merely said to Fenton, “If one word of what happened here tonight is repeated, and I will know if it is,” he warned, “I will seek you out and finish what I have started.”

He let go of Fenton, and the man sank to his knees, holding his throat with both hands, gasping for air.

Denbigh bent to retrieve the sword Fenton had dropped, momentarily taking his eyes off the man.

“Lion, look out!” Charlotte cried.

Fenton slammed a fist-sized stone down as hard as he could against Denbigh’s temple.

There was no way Lion could avoid the blow. Charlotte saw the startled look in his eyes before he crumpled to the ground.

Charlotte grabbed for the sword at the same time as Fenton, but he had to go over Lion’s body to get to it, and she was there first.

Charlotte could not hold on to both her modesty and the surprisingly heavy sword at the same time. She let go of the silk clutched against her
breast and extended the sword protectively in front of her with both hands. “Get out of here! Go! Or I’ll thrust this through your heart.”

“Give that to me, Lady Charlotte. We both know you won’t use it,” Fenton said confidently, as he leered at her near-nakedness. “Then, because you owe it to me, I will take that kiss you have been teasing me with since you first came running after me.”

Charlotte did not waste time threatening him. She simply stabbed with all her strength at the center of his chest.

At the last instant he leaped aside, and the sword caught him in the shoulder instead of the heart. She knew, from her experience with the pitchfork in Denbigh’s thigh, the strength it took to pull metal from flesh. She yanked hard to free the blade, in case Fenton had not gotten the point, and she needed to make it again.

She would not be trifled with. And she wanted him gone
.

Fenton took the hint. “Leave be, Lady Charlotte. I yield the field of honor to you.” He gave her a lopsided bow while stuffing a handkerchief against the wound in his shoulder.

Charlotte followed him with the point of the sword as he circled around her. She stood vigilant until she was certain he was far enough down the
path that he wasn’t coming back, then dropped to her knees beside Denbigh.

She lifted his head into her lap and brushed the dark hair away from the bruised spot on the side of his head.

“Oh, my darling,” she murmured against his face. “Please be well. Please be all right.”

“I’m fine, Charlotte,” Denbigh mumbled.

Charlotte wondered for a mortified moment if he had heard the endearment she had used. It was bad enough loving him when he did not love her back, without letting him in on the secret.

“Where’s Fenton?” he asked in a groggy voice.

If he had heard her words, she thought ruefully, they had not made much of an impression.

“Fenton ran away,” she said.

He put a hand to his temple and hissed as he touched the raw skin and the growing lump. “I don’t believe I was stupid enough to fall for that trick.” He tried to turn his head in her direction, groaned, and lay still. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Fenton did not say or do anything to offend you after he knocked me out, did he?”

“Not after I picked up his sword and stabbed him with it,” Charlotte said.

His brow furrowed, as though, with the blow to his head, he thought his ears might be deceiving him, and confirmed, “You
stabbed
him?”

Charlotte nodded. She was expecting praise for
a job well done. Or at least sympathy for the awfulness of having to do something that made her sick to her stomach.

Denbigh heaved a long-suffering sigh and said, “Charlotte, ladies don’t—”

“Don’t what?” Charlotte demanded, disappointed at his critical response.

“Engage in sword fights with gentlemen,” Denbigh finished.

Charlotte remained silent during the lecture that followed, but she was not listening to it—except to note that every word out of Denbigh’s mouth made it clear that all these weeks she had spent with him had not made one whit of difference in his understanding of who and what she was. He still refused to accept anything less from her than the behavior of that paragon of English ladyhood he would like her to become.